


please confess (confess to me)

by a_static_world



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Home Improvement, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not So Subtle Flirting, POV Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Teasing, They're In Love Your Honor, bucky barnes is a little shit and knows it too, in fact very un-subtle flirting, sambucky sharing a home..., the trailer really got to me guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29271651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Sam and Bucky don’t have a thing. It’s not a thing, what they have, so they don’t make it a thing. It’s more a careful dance, each of them moving their feet exactly in time, clockwork of the cautious.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 256





	please confess (confess to me)

**Author's Note:**

> the title and the song on the record player is [elouise](https://open.spotify.com/track/5LLMYWdANGwQTfGtTi30Bp) by the lumineers :)

Sam and Bucky don’t have a thing. It’s  _ not  _ a thing, what they have, so they don’t make it a thing. They’re both goddamn adults, there’s no need to rush, no need to strain themselves with unnecessary labels. They share a bedroom, share a bed, yeah, but that’s because sometimes Bucky wakes up not knowing where he is, flailing and shoving the covers off and wheeze-sobbing in a way that scares the shit out of Sam every time. He’ll crawl his way across their California King, hands scrabbling until they reach an arm or leg or a torso and then he pulls Bucky in, holds him close until the shakes stop and he falls back asleep. It’s more convenient this way, Sam tells himself. There’d be no way to know if Bucky was having a nightmare if they slept separately, and Sam knows he’d feel like pure shit if he made him go through it all alone. 

Bucky thanks him by making coffee in the morning, while Sam’s out on his run. Makes it real fancy, just like the baristas at the Starbucks in town, all frothy and sweet the way they both like it. Sam never mentions it, but he thinks that it’s maybe because Bucky enjoys the feeling of making something pretty, creating instead of destroying. Sam’ll crowd into Bucky’s space when he gets back, rub his sweaty forehead down the side of Bucky’s face just so the other man can swat him away. It’s a routine, and there’s comfort in it, and if Sam sometimes noses into Bucky’s temple, well. They don’t mention it.

They bicker over music, too, whenever they get the chance. Bucky’s a sucker for the crooners, for Elvis and Sinatra and, more surprisingly, for modern indie music, which Sam makes fun of him for endlessly. Sam prefers Marvin Gaye, David Byrne, and yes, on occasion, Broadway musicals. He’s not immune to Idina Menzel - hell, who  _ is, _ \- and then it’s Bucky’s turn to rag on him, when he opens the door to hear “The Wizard and I” echoing from every corner. At Bucky’s insistence, they have two record players, one in their bedroom and one in the living room. At  _ Sam’s  _ insistence, they also have several bluetooth speakers. 

It’s a little old house they’ve got, one they’ve spent countless hours making habitable. Well,  _ Sam’s _ spent countless hours, on the interior, at least. Demolishing and installing a kitchen, making the stairs safe to walk on, beating out rugs in a way that reminds him so vividly of his childhood that Bucky finds him coughing and crying amidst clouds of dust. Bucky handles the outside, landscaping the jungle back into a yard, chopping wood for their stove, setting up a garden with all the tender care of a new father. Sam can see him from their kitchen windows, all floppy sunhat and tanned forearm and basket of vegetables, and he lets his stare linger until Bucky looks up, flashes him a grin before going back to his tomatoes. 

It’s achingly domestic, and there’s a simmering tension that crops up every now and again. Bucky sliding cold feet on his calves in the middle of the night turns into a game of footsie until they’re breathless from laughing, facing each other with far too little space between. Sam humming in the kitchen, washing the dinner dishes, only to turn and find Bucky looking at him in a way that makes his stomach swoop, makes him fumble with the plate in his hands. It’s a careful dance, each of them moving their feet exactly in time, clockwork of the cautious. 

It’s fall, now, and Sam looks out the window to where Bucky is winterizing the garden, clipping all the stalks and laying them down to re-nourish the soil for next spring. It can’t be more than fifty out, but Bucky’s shucked off his jacket, pushed up the sleeves of the henley he’s wearing that was definitely once Sam’s. It’s a good look on him; cobalt blue, looser in the shoulders and the forearms, though, and he has to keep pushing his sleeves up. Why he wouldn’t just roll them like any other normal person, Sam doesn’t know. Bucky’d popped a pan of cinnamon rolls in the oven before he went out, and Sam breathes deep as the first notes of bread and spices make their way into the warm kitchen air. He didn’t fucking-

“Hey, jackass, how long am I leaving these things in for?” Sam slides the window open, shouting at the man who, once again, forgot to set a timer on his baked goods before leaving them in Sam’s care.

“Uhh. When did I go out?”

Cue eye-roll, crossed arms, the whole shebang.

“I don’t know, man. Twenty minutes ago?”

Bucky nods, hums, pretends not to notice Sam’s exaggerated pantomime of irritation by making a performance out of wiping sweat off his brow. Cute.

“Bout five more minutes, then. Maybe ten if they still look gooey.”

“ _ If they still look gooey _ \- how the hell am I supposed to know?” Sam mutters, closing the window before too much of the good smell escapes outside. 

He checks the rolls after five minutes, and the middles do look a little soft, so he goes for another five. He’s just leaning down to check them again when Bucky comes in, puts a hand on the small of Sam’s back and leans down to look in the oven with him. Logically, Sam knows he’s just bracing himself. Logically, Sam also knows that there’s a counter in arm’s reach of Bucky’s right that would’ve served the same purpose. He lets it slide; the weight of Bucky’s hand isn’t unwelcome, though he’s doing his goddamn best not to lean into it. 

“Nice work, sweetheart,” and the hand on his back migrates to his waist, gives a little squeeze before Bucky single-handedly (literally) pulls the pan from the oven, turning to place it on the trivet Sam slides under. Clockwork. 

They eat cinnamon rolls and bacon for dinner, because they’re responsible adults and they’ve canned the majority of Bucky’s garden in the past three days and thus deserve it. Afterward, Bucky goes up to shower, and Sam can’t shake the weight of his hand on his waist, watching him scale the stairs - that took  _ far _ too much math to rebuild - with ease. He scrubs a hand over his face, ignoring the reckless side of him that’s screaming to follow, to know what would happen if he pressed Bucky up against the wall and kissed him for all he’s worth. Probably nothing, probably Sam would find himself breaking the fragile little home they’d built, probably something. The itchy, adrenaline-laced feeling won’t budge, though, so Sam takes a trip to the dungeon.

“The Dungeon,” as Bucky lovingly calls it, is their basement, stuffed with all manner of tac gear and weaponry and exercise equipment. There’s a slew of punching bags, a treadmill, weights, mostly mis-matched sets from local garage sales.  _ We’re not made of money, sweetheart, _ and Sam smiles as he wraps his hands, Bucky’s voice echoing clear in his head.  _ Yeah, _ he’d scoffed in return,  _ not like we’re tapping HYDRA’s forgotten funds or something similarly illegal _ . Bucky had only winked at him, raised a finger to his lips as the older woman a few tables down pretended not to be listening. 

The first hit lands square centre on the bag, and  _ damn _ it’s been too long since he’s been down here. He wonders what Bucky’s doing upstairs -  _ hit  _ \- if he’s thinking about anything -  _ hit _ \- or anyone -  _ hithithit.  _ That’s not Sam’s business, though something in the back of his mind tells him it could be, if only he’d go after it. There’s little else to do but shove all thoughts out of his mind and focus on the bag in front of him. Meditation, of a sort, allowing his stream of consciousness to flow, all focus directed towards keeping his wrists straight, his bones unbroken, and the punching bag swinging. 

Bucky’s done in the shower by the time Sam emerges, sweaty and aching and with two split knuckles, even though he thought he’d wrapped his hands fairly well. He feels better, though, no longer itching to do something stupid, like kiss his roommate. Cause that’s what they are, right? Roommates? Seems like the wrong word, because Bucky snags his hand when they pass each other on the stairs, frowning at the bleeding knuckles and changing tack to escort Sam upstairs. The bathroom’s still warm, humid and foggy from the lava-hot showers Bucky takes. There’s music playing from the record player in their bedroom, something folksy. The Lumineers, maybe. Bucky always did like them. 

“Up!”

Sam hops up onto the counter, rolling his eyes as Bucky fusses and prods.

“It’s a couple’a splits, Cryofreeze. I’ve handled worse.”

“Yeah, but you don’t gotta, now, idiot.”

Bucky bends over his hand, a few strands falling from his post-shower bun and brushing against the offending knuckles. Neosporin and band-aids are applied as Sam processes what Bucky said, the implications. That Sam didn’t have to simply handle things, he had someone to lean on, someone who would- who would  _ kiss his knuckles better, jesus fuck.  _ Because Bucky’s brushing his mouth feather-light over the bandages, just barely touching, like he’s afraid to hurt him. 

Sam blinks, and the moment’s over. Bucky’s packing up the first-aid kit like nothing had happened, like Sam’s not sitting shell-shocked on their bathroom counter. Bucky reties his hair, mentions something about probably having left enough hot water for another shower, if Sam wants one, and then he’s gone, closing the door with a soft click that finally breaks through the fog. His impulsivity wins out, this time, and Sam finds himself yanking the door open, rattling down the stairs like a man possessed.

Which is how Bucky looks at him, wide-eyed and alarmed, hand drifting towards the gun he sometimes forgets he no longer carries. Sam grabs his arm, trying to arrange his thoughts in a way that’ll make some kind of sense.

“ Why’d you leave?”

“In case you didn’t notice, I’ve already showered. You could’a followed me less worryingly, though, jesus. Scared me half to death-”

“Bucky.” Bucky who rambles when he gets nervous, Bucky who hates confrontation, Bucky who won’t just  _ say what he damn means _ .

“Sam.”

Bucky licks his lips, another nervous tic and it’s driving Sam  _ crazy _ not to know, and Steve’s voice echoes in the back of his head, telling him to  _ just go for it. _

“Can I kiss you?”

Sam barely catches his nod before Bucky closes the space, wrapping his hands around Sam’s waist like they were made to be there, nipping at his bottom lip. It’s so good, crazy good, better than he’d ever dreamed and Sam’s kicking himself for not asking sooner, not spending every minute of his life kissing Bucky Barnes when he could’ve been all along. They break apart, panting, and Bucky’s got this gleam in his eye when he takes Sam’s hand - careful, so careful of the bandages, but Sam honest to god can’t feel the pain anymore - and tugs him up the stairs, kissing him again as they stumble into their bedroom.

Sam doesn’t kiss and tell, but he’s  _ damn _ glad they sprung for the King size. 

Sam wakes up the next morning with Bucky curled into his side, nearly shoving him off the edge of the bed. His nose is cold where it’s pressed into Sam’s neck, likely because they’d opted to only sleep with a sheet last night. Sam presses a hand into Bucky’s shoulder, laughing as the man groans and flops over.

“Move, jackass. We’ve got six whole feet of paid-for real-estate we’re not using.”

“Mmm, ‘m cold. C’mere ‘n be my blanket.”

Sam shakes his head, leaning over to grab their duvet from the floor before joining Bucky in the middle of the bed. He flops the covers over them, covering Bucky’s head, and wriggles down until they’re face-to-face. Bucky’s got the best sleep-face Sam’s ever seen, and that’s saying something; Sam’s got the cutest nieces this side of the Mississippi. It goes all soft, the wrinkles in his brow smoothing out. He looks younger, more like the photographs in his file, but still Bucky. Still  _ his _ Bucky, and Sam presses a kiss to his forehead. Someday, maybe soon, they’ll come, begging to be saved from one threat or another that requires several breaks in ethics. For now, though, they have this. Have Elvis and David Byrne and all the time in the world to learn how to dance, if they want to. 

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyyyyyy  
> i made the mistake of watching CA:TWS and fell directly head-first back into my sambucky bullshit and now here we are!   
> i really just. i really just want them to be disgustingly domestic in TFATWS like just sickeningly sweet on each other but also in total denial about it ;)  
> as always, come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for a grand old time and a lot of inane jaskier-themed nonsense   
> wear your masks, drink water, and take care of yourselves!  
> xoxo static


End file.
